


Warbler

by OrodrethTheTraitor



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 05:32:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12292341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrodrethTheTraitor/pseuds/OrodrethTheTraitor
Summary: Doriath falls, ever so slowly....





	1. Spiders

_A few short years before the First Battle_

* * *

Galadhon's long strides took him quickly towards the dais, where mighty Thingol and mightier Melian restedupon their carven thrones.  Their daughter rose from her smaller seat, and fairly floated down the steps towards him, not seeming to touch the floor. 

"Uncle!  I am so glad you are back!" she cried, leaping into his arms.  "Word came to us of many Orcs gathering to the northeast, where we guessed you still wandered, and we feared for you."  

The Prince gave his young cousin a long hug before setting her down.  "Indeed, many and fierce.  But I had already found the one I sought," - he raised his eyes to the King - "and so, had little to fear."  He gently set Luthien back on her feet, giving her a wink before turning his eyes upwards once more. 

"But now I must speak to your parents of matters that are perhaps not for young ears?" 

He looked to Melian for confirmation, and got it.  Luthien looked back too, and seeing that her parents agreed, began to pout, but quickly obeyed, walking slowly towards the Great Doors, seemingly as the victim of a great injustice who nonetheless was determined to exit with head held high.

The tall warrior had to laugh at the half-grown elleth's show of princely gravity, but added "But do not stray far, my Princess, for your old Uncle Galadhon wishes to hear from you all that happened while he was away!"

All injustice apparently now set right, Luthien skipped from the Great Hall, humming.  Galadhon looked fondly after the girl, knowing quite well what he defended, and why he - and every other warrior and scout in Beleriand - took such risks.  Many others shared his joy in seeing their young Princess happy, and Melian most of all.  Never for a moment would she regret her choice.

Thingol called them all back to attention.  "How did you find him?"  

"In truth, he found me.  He seemed to know I was seeking him, and why, though I know not who could have told him."  

As he remembered, the warrior's face took on a strange cast.  "The borders of Nan Dungortheb are no place for a child, and I should not be wandering there, he said.  Never mind that I came on the King's command, he was himself unarmed, and so short that he does not reach past my shoulder.”  

Melian lifted her white hands in a gesture meant to calm.  "Peace, Galadhon.  Tinfang was not  _unarmed_ , nor intended any insult either to you or to us."

Thingol now spoke. "Knowing Tinfang, he probably forgot the matter altogether on the way back, and is now here in Menegroth, with half a hundred children at his knee.  So you succeeded, Nephew, and I thank you.  Is he close by?"

Galadhon nodded.  "Yes, my King.  He awaits your call."

Thingol signaled his Door-Warden to find the minstrel.  In a low voice that only those close by could hear, he said "Well, let us not make him wait.  He never did like that."

Melian's face betrayed a rare flicker of surprise, but remained silent.

Not five minutes had passed before a signal from the doorwards, at which Thingol and Melian stood, just moments before a slight Elf entered the Hall.  

"Welcome, Tinfang Gelion.  We are glad to see thee, returning to Menegroth again after thy long wandering." said the King.

Tinfang beamed as he approached, humming softly, at times turning his silver head to admire the sculptures.  One seemed to catch his interest and he wandered off to the side, seemingly enthralled.

The younger Elves in the Hall begin murmuring, and even the Queen frowned, but the elders, those who remembered the Great March, seemed amused, Thingol himself among them.

The King sent a thought to his wife.   _"That has ever been Tinfang's way, my Lady.  I remember another who had little sense of time, and I would never presume to hurry_ ** _her_** _."_   At this, Melian smiled warmly and took the hand of her beloved.

Finally Thingol spoke.  "Tinfang, you are frightening the statues and disturbing the youngsters.  You can greet them properly later, can you not?"

The minstrel turned and beamed, and remembered where he had been going.

"Oh, hullo, Elwë.  I love what you've done here.  And your daughter is a hoot!" 

Many indeed were the songs singing the praises of fair Luthien, but suffice to say, "a hoot" was not one of them.  Nor did more than five Elves in the Kingdom, one of whom was Lord Eöl, call the King  _Elwë_ so casually, or indeed at all, ever....

But the King only laughed and replied "And you, no doubt, have been filling her head with nonsense.  Soon she will think she is a nightingale in truth, and that she can fly like one!"

At this, a slight frown crossed Tinfang's face.   _Well, she is, and she can!_  he thought to himself.  But the moment passed, and he was smiling again before he stopped at the foot of the dais.  

"Nonsense?  Who, me?"  His laughter was silvery, but only Daeron -- and, of course, the Queen -- could discern its many notes.   "But it's been a fair while since I've seen you, Elwë, and longer still since you sent a kinsman to seek me.  No matter, though, I have been busy."  The minstrel then proceeded to describe the wonders of the spider-webs of Nan Dungortheb unsolicited, and at some length.  "For even the creatures of the Hunter can be beautiful," he finally finished.

Thingol kept calm only by remembering that however insolent, Tinfang was a hero.  During the March, the singer had proven himself a peerless scout.  Extraordinarily observant and utterly fearless, he had seemingly been everywhere at once in those days, and had warned the Teleri many times of dangers ahead, saving countless lives in the process.  That he would have journeyed alone through Nan Dungortheb was no great surprise.  That he would have stayed there for a half-yen, without sending any word, however, surely was.

Tinfang seemed to read this thought, for he answered "The spiders have much to say, if you listen.  They sing of a Great Mother, who once dwelt in these lands, before ever we came west.  They sing that she will return one day.  Though they do not know when that day will come, I do not doubt them.  So I listened to their songs, and learned much of their thought. They hate the Quendi, it is true, and kill us when they can, but they are not inclined to venture outside the valley.  At least not until this Mother returns.  But nor have they any love for the  _yrch_ or for the other creatures of the Hunter, and will not let them pass.  And though of course they do not think of their home as such, Nan Dungortheb is effectively a northern fence for your land." 

Those looking on were horrified.  The spiders had  _eaten_ many an Elf, some even on the northern boundaries of Doriath.  Others who had seemingly escaped their clutches had suffered an even crueler fate; fear that would not lift, a crippling affliction that began with terrible nightmares but spread quickly to swallow waking life, and without exception, ended in fading.  No cure had ever been found.  Yet Tinfang had not onlydwelt in that deadly valley for a half-yen, but spoke of its inhabitants almost as  _allies_.  The murmuring began again, much louder this time.

But Thingol signaled for silence, and took up his staff of Doom.  Silence indeed fell, and the King spoke gravely and with Power, as one who had been chosen by the Valar.

"And such counsel, Tinfang, which only you can provide, is why we would have you by our side once again.  We would have you once more as our foremost scout, as you were so long ago.  Kneel, and rise as Tinfang, Lord of Iant Iaur, and second only to Beleg upon the Northern Marches."

Tinfang looked for a long moment upon both King and Queen before replying.  

"And come and go at your call, and sing only those songs as you wish me to sing?  Nay, Elwë, I am not made for such constraint.  I will tell you what I have learned in these last years, that may aid you in defending this realm, and then I will go back to the Marches and speak with Beleg.  There is much he should know as well." 

This was more than Daeron could stand.  "How dare you speak thus to the King?  Who has sacrificed so much for our sake?  So you can enchant a few spiders, well and good.  So you can weave the air, and bend the light somewhat, so that it appears to our eyes that the stars kindle at your command.  I can do the same, and know well that it is but a glamour.  I …"

Tinfang turned, his fair face marred by sadness.  "Dairon, well do I remember the boy who once listened to me with delight, called me Warbler, and made a song that the others in Kuivienen, who had not his gifts, called silly.

 

_He pipes not to me,_

_He pipes not to thee,_

_He whistles for none of you._

_His music is his own._

 

Have you forgotten it?  You now sing for others, as is your choice, and your right.  I choose otherwise, as is mine." 

The Queen stepped forward now, seeming to grow and fill with light, and spoke in a voice softer than the King's, but even more potent.

"We are  _all_  of us part of the Song, all part of the Great Music.  You have your part, as does Daeron, and the King.  And though I am of the Ainur who sang the First Music, I too have but a small part to play.   _None_  of us but Eru can claim mastery of any part of the Song, even our own."

Tinfang stared at the Queen, astonished.  Then he laughed merrily, and the sound was like many bells of different tones all ringing at once.   

"Ai, Melyanna, you are too funny!"   _Though I am sorry indeed to see your Sight is occluded._   "But as you wish, O Queen, I will not stay to argue otherwise."  

He pulled his flute from within his robes and began to play.  A swift, merry tune, but as he stood there, both flute and minstrel faded.  The Elves in the Great Hall could see straight through him for a few minutes, but he grew ever fainter and soon vanished entirely, though the music continued on for a bit longer.  Then he was gone, never to return to Menegroth.

* * *

_Notes: Tinfang is canonically (Book of Lost Tales, Vaire's conversation with Eriol) "half-Fay" or half-Maia, just as Luthien was. He is named as one of the greatest three bards of the Eldar -- along with Maglor and Daeron -- in the Lay of Leithian. Tinfang addressing "Daeron" as "Dairon" is not a typo; "Dairon" is the older spelling used in the Lay. The italicized lines of poetry are from JRRT's poem "Tinfang Warble"._


	2. Mirdan i Doriath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two notoriously hard-headed Elves, and a sword.

_Menegroth, YoS 58_

* * *

My cousin approaches me and kneels. His bearing shows both a deference that is not fawning and a dignity that is not pride. So like my brothers, yet _so_ different.

"Rise, kinsman, and speak."

"I have brought you a gift, Elwë."

"A sword, by the look of it."

My smile is somewhat strained - I have more than a dozen swords already, and well he knows this. But within a minute I know it to be the finest blade I have ever laid eyes on, much less held. Elbereth's stars! It is at once light as a night-breeze, and heavy enough to cleave stone, if I am any judge of steel.

"What have you named it, Eöl? I know you could not leave such brilliance nameless."

He bows, with twinkling eyes. "I have named it for that which I have so oft earned from you, my Lord. _Aranruth._ King's Ire. I do but gift it back."

I laugh, bid my cousin sit beside me, and for a while we are friends again - all insults, real and imagined, forgotten. I do believe that was the only time he called me anything other than Elwë.

* * *

_Notes: Aranruth is the canon name of Thingol's sword, which was indeed forged by Eöl, who was Thingol's "kinsman."_


	3. Hammer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A future lord of Gondolin carries a message to a hostile realm.

_Western edge of Neldoreth Forest, Doriath, YoS 108_

* * *

The Noldorin messenger halted and stood stock-still, seemingly turning to stone. After a long minute, he reopened his eyes and looked directly at the guard-captain still sitting "hidden" in the upper branches of a great hemlock. Then he grinned, looking very pleased with himself.

At once, several guards dropped to the ground, while more remained above, all with arrows nocked. The Sinda captain followed, and stepped forward to meet the intruder.

"Greetings, Lord. None of the Noldor may enter these woods, save those who are kin to Finrod, and that only with permission of Elu Thingol. I was informed of no arriving visitors, and you do not bear the proper token. If you seek to pass eastwards, you must go around, either to the North or the South. The northern route is the quicker, the southern the less perilous." His gweth's arrows remained nocked.

The messenger frowned, and seemed to consider which path would be better, looking both north and south, and then eastwards again, before turning back to the tall Sinda.

"Captain, I thank you for your suggestions. However, I bear a message to Elu Thingol, so my road lies directly eastwards."

"You may give the message to me. I will take it to the King. On my honor, none save Thingol will unseal it."

"Thank you again, but as the message is verbal, I must decline. It is for Thingol's ears alone."

"Yet you may not pass. Here the King's will is law."

"Naturally. As my King Turgon's will is law to me. And he _orders_ me to deliver this message personally to Thingol. Surely you understand."

Though short for a Noldo, the messenger was built like a bull. He stood his ground, vast legs set wide apart. Striking gold-overlaid mithril armor indicated that his House was not a minor one.

The captain frowned. "Yet you are unknown to us. At least give me your name. Here you may await the King's decision."

"Rôg."

"That is no name for a Noldo. Your true name, and that of your father, so that we may know you."

The messenger's eyes glinted in the twilight. "Rôg is my only name. My wife gave it to me when we awoke, and I have never felt need of another."

Receiving no reply other than astonished faces (still behind nocked arrows), the messenger at last spoke once more. "Is Beleg Cuthalion no longer Marchwarden? He, at least, will know who I am. We knew each other well, and fought beside one another, as brothers. A _very_ long time ago, but he will not have forgotten me, I think."

The Captain returned to his senses. "Beleg yet dwells in these woods, so of course he is Marchwarden. I shall send for him, but you must await him here."

Rôg relaxed his stance and smiled.

"Excellent! Tell Beleg the Hammer has returned to Ennor, is sorry he ever left it, and is eager to see the Strongbow."

The captain took one of the other guards aside and spoke swiftly and quietly. Rog examined the guards further.  Well-disciplined lads, their bows were now aimed downwards, but still ready to be drawn and fired at a moment's notice.  Quite ridiculous, he thought. He needed only to call upon the visor of his helm in thought for it to snap shut - he feared no feathered shaft.  But it proved unneccessary, as the guard the captain had spoken to ran off, and the captain himself bid Rôg share their food and fire.

And so, less then a week later, Thingol heard that Turgon would be leaving Nevrast, where (generally) he was headed, and that many Sindar would be accompanying him. Since the captain of Doriath was wise and his guards disciplined, the most astonishing news of the messenger that came to the ears of the rest of the Iathrim was that he had thrice beaten Beleg at arm-wrestling. Very few indeed could make such a claim.

* * *

_Notes: Rog was the lord of the House of the Hammer of Wrath, one of the Twelve Houses of Gondolin. His is such a strange name that I assume it must be very ancient. For non-HOME-fanatics, the 'My wife gave it to me when we awoke' implies that he was one of the Unbegotten._


	4. A Troublesome Jewel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A counselor watches things begin to fall apart.

_Menegroth, YoS 465_

* * *

I knelt briefly before Thingol, then rose.  Never before had I feared to do his duty to my liege, but times were changing.  
  
"You did poorly, my King."  
  
Thingol, shocked for a moment by the blunt rebuke, hesitated a few seconds before replying, evenly, "How so?"  
  
"The Mortal, you mishandled him doubly."    
  
The King looked tired.  "So the Queen tells me."  
  
"What does she tell you?"  
  
"That I have doomed Luthien to suffering, and invited the wrath of the Feanorians, if not of the Valar."  
  
"That may be, but I came to speak of more immediate concerns."  
  
At that, Thingol stood up, and looked sternly down on me.  "I have done yet  _more_  harm?"  
  
I cringed, but knew it was my duty to bring the grim news.  "Many of the people are shocked that you would offer Luthien for a jewel, as though she were..."   
  
"Beren will not return!" he bellowed.  "Did I not make plain that not for all the riches of Ennor would I give Luthien to one unworthy?"  
  
"Of course," I replied, "but the rumor spreads through your lands all the same.  And ...."  
  
" _And?_   There is yet more?"  
  
"And others are of like mind with you as to the worthiness of Beren and the chances of his return, but say that nonetheless it was an ill thing to send him to torment in Angband.  What was he but a witless, misguided child?  If his actions merited death, better the swift sword of mercy from us than what he will face in the hands of the Enemy."  
  
"Such was your earlier council to me, in private.  Whence came these rumors?"  
  
"Not from me, Lord." I replied, appalled at the suggestion.  "Have I ever served you with less than my full heart?"  
  
"Nay.  Ever you have served well, Saeros. Forgive me - our troubles weigh heavily.  Truly.  What is your council?"  
  
I tried to give a diplomatic turn to the substance of what I had to say, but -- for once -- I failed, and the words came out in a rush.  
  
"Stop driving friends and allies away!  First Eöl left, and most were glad to be rid of him.  But we still have none who can match his skills.  And since then, you have heeded those who say aught against your decisions less with each passing year!  How long since you lent your ear to Elmo?   _Your own brother, who held our people back for your sake!_  He knows he is forgotten and dwells on the south-border.  His descendants and their families - they are yet loyal, but you try them!  In all this appalling business, where were Galadhon, Galathil, and Celeborn?  Do we even know?  They all hold the respect of the people, to say nothing of being princes of the realm."  
  
"Which of our lords and captains still stand close by you, my King?  Beleg, Mablung and I.  Few others.  And even Beleg wavers.   _Beleg!_   The mere thought is unimaginable, to voice it almost treasonous, but I am sorry to say it is true!"  
  
"And, though there will be no open rebellion, if you do not take action to stem this tide, many will simply leave.  And the ones that leave, on balance, will be more spirited than those who remain.  Talk spreads again, particularly in the South and the East, that the Girdle is an ill thing, at least ... as it is currently used."  
  
"And - " here I suppose I must have looked truly fearful - "Daeron has gone mad!  I've begged him for many long-years to let go his foolish longing for Luthien, and take a wife like the rest of us.  Being what and who he is, he could have any unattached elleth in these woods, save only Luthien, but he would never listen to reason.  And now he is..." 

Words failed.

At the mention of Daeron, Thingol's defiant countenance faded into a morosity singularly unfit for the Elf he once had been.  "Poor Daeron - ever was he my friend as well.  What curse is laid upon him, I do not know.  Nay, I know all too well, and though it is one for which few will lay blame at my feet, I regret it the most.  Luthien's beauty is as a rock on which many good men have broken themselves.  Though most have moved on, sensibly, not all can.  Most are unimportant, but Daeron is vital.  Doriath needs him, even more than Mablung, perhaps as much as Beleg.  They are all irreplaceable."  
  
"She must marry, my King.  If she loves Daeron not, she must choose another.  A troublesome jewel may be buried, but it would be better to set a guard on it to warn others off.  And, though you are King, you cannot be that guard - only a husband can.  Though of course none wish Luthien to come to grief, and she in turn means no harm to any of us, I must say that our realm is coming to harm because of her."    
  
"And whom would you recommend for her?"  
  
_Daeron, of course!  Or at least I would, had your daughter's long toying with his heart not finally ruined him!_    But such words, even Melian dared not say to Thingol.  I sighed, knowing I had already said too much.  Yet I must answer, and there were indeed other fitting options.  
  
"If our laws permitted it, Beleg.  Alyri his wife was slain so long ago by the Hunter, or whatever evil creatures stalked the woods in the very earliest days, that our laws seem cruel, and designed to punish the guiltless.  Was Beleg not already a widower even in  _your_  youth, my King?"  
  
"Yes, but that law, even I cannot set aside, Saeros, as well you know.  Have we not seen enough would-be couples pleading before us, and have I not denied them all, sending them away with naught but empty words of pity and cold comfort?  Few of my duties have been more painful, but that law is the doom of all the Quendi, not only of the Sindar."  
  
"I question the truth of that, my Lord.  Not your sincerity, only your interpretation of what must be.  The Avari do not obey that law, and little harm has come to them.  Even some of my Nandorin kin have broken it and remarried, saying they do not believe their spouses imprisoned in Badhron's halls wish them either to remain forever lonely here in Ennor or to follow them into death needlessly.  Nor do they believe that that is the Valar's intent.  I myself do not believe either fate was intended for one such as Beleg.  He is worthy of your daughter.  Kind, yet strong enough not to be overwhelmed by her."  
  
Thingol now grimaced, and I saw an untoward look of pain pass over his face. But he said only, "Even so, I may not overturn that law for those who dwell within my bounds."  
  
"As you wish, Sire."  
  
"I will think on your words, Saeros."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"I wish your wife and all your family well, as ever.  Please tell them that.  You may go to them now; I have no more need for you today."  
  
Throat constricted, I nodded and took my leave.  
  
It was all coming to an end.

* * *

_Notes: I've always wondered how Saeros, who must have at one time been worthy of his position as one of Thingol's counsellors, grew so bitter by the time he's introduced in the Silm._

_The discussion of the Laws and Customs near the end owes much to Jael's wonderful "All Lies and Jest."_

_"Luthien's beauty is as a rock on which many good men have broken themselves." echoes Sam's famous quote from TTT about Galadriel: "But perhaps you could call her perilous because she's so strong in herself. You could dash yourself to pieces on her, like a ship on a rock, or drown yourself, like a Hobbit in a river, but neither rock nor river would be to blame." What's true for Galadriel must have been even more so for Luthien, and Daeron indeed does drown himself._


	5. Tatyar, Nelyar, Noldor, Sindar, Kwendi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beleg has to make a choice.

_Menegroth, YoS 472_

* * *

The King of the Sindar shook his head angrily. "I forbid you to go. You will not march with those betrayers of our kin."

Beleg stared evenly at his King, his features growing colder than a starless midwinter night, but did not reply.

The King, standing not three feet from the warrior, stared back. Or rather down; being the tallest of the Children of Illuvatar had its advantages. His wrath could be terrible, and it was most certainly gathering. Great power shone from eyes of the one who had been chosen, who had seen the Trees...

"You forbid _me_?" came the reply, finally. "I think not."

"All those in Doriath, _all_ , are subject to my command. You _will_ hear my words, Beleg!"

"Once we were Kwendi. All of us. Perhaps for most of us, that has changed," the Unbegotten replied, "but not for me. Those in Doriath, you say, are yours to command. That is true, and rightly so. Outside of Doriath, however, we are free to do as we wish. All are."

The last words were almost whispered.

Elu's eyes gleamed strongly enough to cast faint shadows on his recalcitrant Marchwarden's face. "You will fight alongside those murderers, then?"

"Against the one who murdered Finwë your _friend_ , the same one who murdered Alyri my _wife_ , and countless other Kwendi besides? Yes, I surely will."

"Goodbye, my King. If I return, I hope to find welcome here in these woods. But if not, there are others who might make better use of my bow."

With that, Beleg Cuthalion turned on his heels and departed, destined for unnumbered tears.

* * *

_Notes: "Kwendi" is the Primitive-Elvish equivalent of "Quendi", meaning all the Elves. "Tatyar" and "Nelyar" are the second and third groups to awaken at Cuiviénen, who later became the Noldor and the Teleri/Sindar/Nandor._


	6. Failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance for Dior to show his quality.

_Menegroth, YoS 505_

* * *

The Feanorian ambassador offered friendship.  He offered aid in strengthening Menegroth.  If Doriath needed gold to help the widows and orphans made by the recent treachery of the Naugrim, Maedhros would give whatever was required.  Gold and other coin, the Feanorians had in plenty, even after the Nirnaeth.  Caranthir's treasury in Ossiriand still stood.

The Thousand Caves would be better defended if the Sindar had two thousand of the finest swords in Beleriand.  And, if the Sindar could find it in their hearts to forgive the horror of Alqualondë and renounce Thingol's declaration of enmity, each sword would come with a battle-hardened swordsman to wield it.  Many of the ambassador's people wished a more settled existence, and it was pointed out that with Melian gone, Doriath was likely to need swordsmen.  Morgoth would not leave them be for much longer. 

And all -- _all_ \--  the sons of Feänor asked in return, was the Silmaril.  The ambassador argued patiently but insistently.  The jewel was, after all, rightfully an heirloom of the House of Finwë, not that of Elwë.  Did the Feanorians hold aught that belonged to the Sindar?  The actions of Celegorm and Curufin were greatly regretted, and a letter of apology from the brothers was produced.  Everyone had gone a little mad, or more than a little, after Dagor Bragollach, they explained.

Dior listened to the arguments calmly, speaking only briefly to reject everything offered.  The Silmaril, set in the Nauglamir, seemed to shine especially brightly. Finally, he wearied of the embassy and of his counsellors' craven advice.  He rose from his throne and strode forward to stand eye to eye with the Noldo, who apparently had wax in his ears.

"We want nothing that you hold in your bloody hands, kinslayer."

Erestor flushed.  "Since you so name me, I will say that you should carefully consider the implications of your words.  For it is your lives we hold in our hands."

Dior replied quietly and evenly, with measured disdain.  "How arrogant, how typical of your people, to think so.  But you are not as mighty as you believe.  If you enter Doriath armed, a power greater than yours will strike down every one of your bloodyhanded warriors.  Not one will be left.  _You are warned._ "

The eyes two handspans from Erestor's face were radiant with confidence, and no little power.  In them could be seen Melian and Luthien, Beren and Thingol.  But they belonged to a boy who acted his age.  Tall and well-formed, but a boy nonetheless.  Why did the regents not correct him?  Could Dior be King of the Sindar in fact and not just in name?  Confusion turned to sickening horror with the realization that  _there were no regents!_    _Witless Moriquendi!_

Only one gambit was left. 

"You are brave, Lord, and I do not doubt that you would lay down your life to protect your people, and that which your parents wrested from the Iron Crown.  But - " he gestured at the Sinda counsellors, "would you lay down  _their_  lives to protect only the latter?  And also those of the less mighty among your people?  Will you make the choice of Olwë?"

Dior turned his back on the arrogant fool.  The Kinslayers would not listen even to the bluntest of warnings, and could no longer hear the Song.  He pitied them.  For Thingol's heir knew, as certainly as he knew that water flowed downhill, that the sons of Feänor would never regain the Silmaril of Doriath.  And he knew that he had naught to fear.

* * *

_Notes: Dior was 36 when he died. Why he was --ruling-- King of the Sindar at that age, no one knows._


End file.
